Harm and Harmony
by BlizzardWatch
Summary: When Scout lies to his Ma, the BLU team is left in a desperate scramble to put together a concert of folk music. Out of their depth, out of patience, and out of coffee, it will take everything they've got to switch from inflicting harm to singing in harmony in time for the show.
1. Chapter 1: Anacrusis

It had been an excellent time in New York.

The mercs' annual two weeks of summer vacation had come around, and they had decided to take a road trip to the Big Apple. So they'd piled into Sniper's camper van and made the journey. It was pretty sweet, the nine of them spending some time together without upcoming battles looming over them. Sometimes the work got tiresome, and it was good to have a break and just hang out as friends.

They would have been headed back now, but at Scout's request had decided to take a bit of a detour and spend the weekend at his Ma's house. They had been reluctant at first, but the prospect of a real home cooked meal had been too good to pass up. So they all clambered back into the van and started the trip to Boston, eight of them in the back, Pyro taking his turn at driving.

Scout had been practically elated when they'd first set off. But now, he was oddly subdued. For someone so anxious to see his mother, and particularly for their rambunctious Scout, it was... strange. The others didn't make much of it at first, but soon his silence became unnerving. Finally, Engineer bit the bullet and asked.

"Something bothering you, boy?" he said, knowing he didn't want to hear whatever Scout was about to say.

"Well..." Scout began hesitantly. "There's, uh... something you guys oughta know 'bout my Ma."

"And what's that, lad?" said Demoman, taking a swig.

"Well, ya see..." Scout paused. He was dreading this. "She doesn't exactly... Doesn't exactly know I'm a merc."

Everything in the van went still as they turned to look at him. He grinned nervously.

"Sorry? What do you mean by that, boy?" Engineer peered at him intently through his goggles.

"I never told her I'm a merc." Scout dropped his eyes and shuffled his feet uncomfortably.

"But you write letters to her all the time," Sniper said. "What, the 'kill or be killed' part just never came up?"

"What have you been telling her, son?" There was a note of trepidation, and perhaps a tinge of rebuke, in Engineer's tone.

"My ma... Well, she thinks that I'm, uh..."

"Spit it out," growled Spy.

Scout closed his eyes and braced himself. "She thinks that I'm in a professional folk choir."

There was a beat of dead silence.

Then hysterical laughter as the entire team processed this news.

"A folk choir? A folk choir!? You must be joking!"

"A singer! _Mein gott_, are your serious, Scout?!"

Scout did his best to weather the onslaught of mockery, rolling his eyes resignedly. Only Sniper was frowning.

"Scout, I've noticed our names in those letters," he began, and the laughter slowly began to die out as the rest of the team gradually boarded his train of thought. "What does your mum think we do?"

The entire team was silent once more, looking at Scout, this time with new concern.

"Well..." Scout dithered. He'd known he would have to tell them. That didn't mean he was looking forward to it. "She may have gotten the impression that... you guys... are my choir mates."

The silence congealed into solid disbelief. Scout looked up at his teammates, biting his lip.

"Your mama..." Engineer said slowly, "thinks we're all singers."

"Well, no..." Scout replied. There was a moment of decreased tension. Then he went on. "Some of you are instrumentalists."

It took both Engineer and Heavy to wrestle Soldier off Scout while he screamed at him unintelligibly. When he had calmed down slightly, at least to the point of temporary non-violence, everyone turned back to the cowering Scout.

"I think an explanation is in order," Spy said, glowering at Scout.

"Come on, guys!" Scout said, straightening up and pinching his bleeding nose. "She's my Ma! She worries. I couldn't tell her I was out there plugging guys full of bullets, and taking a fair share of them myself! She'd be so upset! And disappointed."

"Didn't stop me telling my parents the truth," Sniper grumbled. Scout ignored him.

"So, I lied," he continued. "She'd always wanted me to become a musician. Had me in every lesson we could afford when I was growing up. And I wanted to be able to tell her about you guys. So... Team BLU became a professional folk choir."

"What kind of pansies do you think we are?" Soldier roared.

"Hey!" Scout protested. "It's American folk music! I thought you'd like that!"

Soldier's expression was conflicted. He clearly felt folk choirs were for hippies. Yet the allure of Americana was strong. Engineer stepped in.

"That's all well and good in your letters," he said, "but we're going to meet your mama. That could become a problem."

"No, it won't!" Scout was desperate. "Look, it's not like you're going to have to perform or anything. Just follow my lead and play along with the story, alright? You guys could manage that for a weekend." He looked at his teammates, wide-eyed and earnest.

"Absolutely not!" Spy retorted, after a moment. "I will not be complicit in this ridiculous-"

"Sure we will, Scout," Medic sighed. They all looked at him. Scout broke into a wide, beaming grin.

"Thanks, man! I knew I could count on you guys!" Scout's tone of surprised relief belied his statement.

"Doctor, I do not think-"

"We are a team, Heavy," Medic said primly. "We help each other."

There was a sort of reluctant, grumbling assent from the rest of the team, as though they were doubting the value of this principle.

"But most of all, as much fun as it would be to get Scout in trouble," Medic went on, as Scout's expression changed from relief to shocked dejection, "it would be much, much more entertaining to watch him flounder through this lie for a weekend."

You could almost hear the gears turning in their heads as the team imagined this scenario. Soon they were all grinning and nodding. Scout was looking from one teammate to the other in horror.

"Whether we succeed or fail," Medic continued, "we will get an excellent show from Scout here, and there are no consequences to speak of for us."

"What? Guys-" Scout began, but Sniper cut him off.

"Be glad we're bothering to try at all, mate," he said, slapping him on the back with a malicious smile.

Scout looked more grimly frightened than ever.

"If we are going to be doing this," Spy said, lighting a cigarette, "then we will need to know the full story."

Scout took a breath and laid it out for them.

It can be boiled down to this. BLU Thunder was a folk choir that toured the Southern states, performing gigs and competing against other groups in folk festivals. Each choir member had a nickname, which just happened to be the same as the mercs' class names. Scout and Medic were tenors, Sniper and Soldier made up the baritone section, and Demo and Heavy sang bass. The remaining three were instrumentalists, with Engie on guitar, Pyro on percussion, and Spy on accordion.

"Accordion?" Spy said blankly.

"Well, yeah," Scout said. "You know, 'cause you're French. French movies always have accordions playing, so..."  
"Fascinating theory," Spy replied. "But in spite of your bizarre notion of Frenchmen, I do not play accordion."

"Haven't you been listening? You don't need to," Scout said, a hint of frustration colouring his tone. "You just gotta say you do."

"I cannot believe we are-"

There was a noise from Pyro at the wheel. The mercs looked up and saw they were pulling into the driveway of a small brick house.

"That's it!" Scout cried, pointing enthusiastically. "That's my house! Oh, man! It's been forever since I was back here! Come on, guys!" He hopped up, slinging his bag over his shoulder, then paused. He turned to his friends.

"Oh, and guys?" He gave them a look. "Be cool, okay?"

Then he sauntered out of the van. Anticipating the adventures the weekend was sure to provide, the team followed.


	2. Chapter 2: Downbeat

Scout knocked on the door, bouncing from foot to foot. He'd hadn't seen his Ma for so long, and the letters and occasional phone call just didn't cut it. She'd have a hug for him the moment she opened the door, he was sure of it, and if he knew his mother, there'd be cookies in the oven. The team was great, sure, but there was no replacement for having Ma around. And with them all together... well, even with his doubts about the folk choir story, it was definitely going to be a sweet weekend. He grinned at the team clustered behind him, then as he heard footsteps in the hall, he turned back sharply.

The door was pulled open on its stiff hinges to reveal Scout's mother, with a beaming smile on her face.

"Sweetie!" she said, opening her arms wide.

"Ma!" replied her overjoyed son, and he wrapped her in an enthusiastic hug. He was obliged to crouch a little, since she was a fair deal shorter than him.

"Oh, sweetie pie, I've missed you so much!" she said, and planted a motherly kiss on his cheek.

"Aw, I missed you too, Ma!" Scout said, wiping his cheek with a grin and straightening up.

His mother frowned abruptly. "What happened to your face?"

Scout belatedly remembered his bleeding nose, the remnant of his scuffle with Soldier. "Oh, uh... smacked it on the van door. It's no biggie."

"You look just like when you was little,"she said, shaking her head and smiling. "Always coming home with bruises from one scrap or another." Then she peered behind her son and gave a hospitable smile to the mercs. "And your friends all made it! Oh, it'll be good to have the house noisy again, even if only for a couple days. Come in, everyone! I'll take your bags. Make sure to take off your shoes, and you can hang your hats on the coat rack, no one wears 'em in the house."

The team looked to Scout questioningly as she bustled inside.

"Yes, she calls me sweetie pie, no, you can't keep your hats on, and if you have any weapons on you, leave them in the van. Anything else?" said Scout brusquely. There were no replies. "Then come on in. And guys: be cool. Don't do anything that'd make this all go sideways, alright?"

"Like what?" asked Demo.

Scout sighed, looking skywards dramatically. "Nothing violent. Nothing destructive. Nothing... merc-ish. Okay? Now come on," he continued. "Before Ma wonders what's taking so long. And don't forget: folk choir." This last was punctuated with an emphatic hand gesture.

"So as long as we are not ourselves, everything will be fine?" Spy said sardonically as they all filed into the narrow entrance hall.

"Exactly," Scout replied, distracted now with finding hooks for all the hats.

"Shouldn't that be easy for you?" Sniper said, smirking at Spy, who rolled his eyes and ignored him.

Once she'd returned from giving Scout some motherly medical attention, Scout's Ma was the perfect hostess. They were at home in minutes, their bags tucked away in their temporary rooms, tea and cookies set meticulously on the well-scrubbed table, and everyone in the kitchen. At first, the team was a little rigid; they'd had to dig out long disused manners at short notice. But they were clearly warming to Scout's mother and her hospitality. It did take some convincing for her to permit Pyro to wear the mask in the house, but Scout was able to swing the idea that it was a medical thing, so once that was settled, everything was positively homey.

Scout was relieved to see that nothing had changed in the house since he'd left. Old school photos stuck to the fridge with corporate give-away magnets, ceramic kittens on the windowsill, floral curtains that were faded but still cheerful. It felt like a home. This was a place where a mother lived.

"I baked these fresh this morning," Scout's mother said, replenishing the plate of cookies. "Chocolate chip, with a dash of blue food colouring to make BLU Thunder feel at home." She gave them a warm smile.

There was a general mumbling of appreciation from the team, most of whom had their mouths full with the delectable treats. She continued to bustle around the kitchen, making sure things was just so. Once she apparently deemed everything satisfactory for her guests, she finally sat down at the table with the team, adjusting the head band that kept her greying chestnut hair in place.

"Mighty kind of you to put the lot of us up for the weekend, Ms..." Engineer trailed off, coming to the abrupt and embarrassing realization that he didn't know the name of Scout's mother.

"Goodness, sweetie, you never told them my name?" She shook her head. "Where are those manners I taught you? I'm Ms. Sophie Lake. But you don't need to worry about calling me Ms., any friend of Scout's is a friend of mine. Sophie will do just fine."

"Sophie, then," Engineer obliged. "I can't imagine the trouble we're putting you to, and I gotta tell ya, we really appreciate it."

"Oh, it's no trouble at all." She waved away the thanks good-naturedly. "Raising eight boys... Now that's a struggle." She gave a sunny laugh and tousled Scout's hair. He blushed, but as he couldn't bear his mother thinking that he was embarrassed by her, he gave her a grin in return.

"Now, let's see if I can match some names to faces here," she said, pursing her lips. Heavy, Demo, Pyro, and Spy she figured out from the descriptions in Scout's letters, and the rest were rapidly introduced. "Now, I gotta wonder, where'd those nicknames come from? Seems a funny assortment for a choir."

The team looked to Scout, his Ma's question implicitly echoed by their raised eyebrows.

"Uh..." Scout stammered. He had never planned out the rationale behind the nicknames; it honestly hadn't occurred to him. Now he was drawing a total blank. He started with the easiest. "Well, Heavy's self-explanatory..." Now what? The others wouldn't be so simple. "Demo... Well, Demo he just _demolishes_ those harmony lines, you know?" That was a solid one. He added a laugh for good measure. "Hand Pyro a tambourine and he's on _fire_." He was off and rolling now. "Soldier can tough out a tour like it's a campaign. Sniper never, ever misses a note. Engineer can assemble a musical arrangement in seconds flat. Spy is the most perceptive musician you'll ever meet. And Medic's always got a supply of honey for sore throats."

Scout congratulated himself mentally. He may not be smart in the usual sense of the word, but he was a quick thinker.

His mother nodded, smiling. "And what about you, sweetie pie? How'd they start calling you Scout?"

There was an easy answer, Scout was sure of it. He just had no idea what it was. None at all. He completely froze, and began legitimately considering creating a diversion of some kind, when Sniper saved him.

"Self-assigned nickname," he said, with a grin.

"That's just like you," Sophie said to her son. "You _are_ the type who'd give himself a nickname."

"Yeah, well..." Scout mumbled in mock sheepishness. He sent Sniper a relieved look that said, _Thank you_.

Sniper replied with an amused look that said, _You're screwed, mate_.

And Scout knew it. This was only the beginning. Suddenly a weekend seemed like an absurd amount of time.

"It's been a while since your last letter, honey bear," Ma said, taking a sip of tea from a mug with _Proud Mama _emblazoned upon it in a crayon-like font. "How'd the Alabama tour turn out?"

"Great," Scout said. "Got some pretty good crowds, and even made enough to afford a trip out here."

"And I'm so glad," she said giving him a squeeze. Then there was a knock on the door. "Excuse me a minute, fellas." She went to answer it.

The kitchen abruptly became a war conference room.

"Alright, guys, you gotta start talking more or Ma's gonna know something's up," Scout hissed urgently.

"What do you want us to say?" Spy said. "You've given us nothing to work with."

"Just wing it! I've tried to keep the last few letters pretty vague, so there shouldn't be too many problems," he said. "Come on, guys, work with me here!"

"I don't know, Scout..." Medic said doubtfully. "We can try, but-"

"That was just Mrs. Pinkham from across the street, returning off my book of cross stitch patterns." Sophie had returned to the kitchen and the room instantly resumed a jovial atmosphere,though one that was somewhat forced. "Now, what were we saying?"

"I was just about to ask you how things have been around here," Scout said, hoping to direct the conversation away from their fictitious musical exploits.

"Oh, sweeite, you know nothing ever happens here," she said, shaking her head with a laugh. "You're the one with the adventures."

"Red Sox are having a good season, huh?" Scout said, his hope waning.

"Come on, honey bear, tell me about the Alabama tour!"

Scout looked pointedly at his teammates.

Demo took the first shot. "Alabama! Gotta love it." What he lacked in content, he made up for in enthusiasm. Unfortunately, the effect was only momentary. Demo's words fell into a pit of silence, and the conversation ground to a halt.

Scout attempted to indicate through exaggeratedly wide eyes that someone needed to get the ball rolling here.

"Remember the night we got that thunderstorm?" Sniper tried. This generated a chorus of variations on the theme of "yes". Encouraged, he went on. "Knocked the power out and everything."

"I think that was in one of your letters, sweetie pie," his Ma said, smiling.

Luck had finally sided with Scout. "Yeah, it was," he confirmed. "That was one huge storm. We were soaked through the second we stepped out of the tour van. Had to cancel a show on account of the power."

It was a true story, sort of. The mercs _had _encountered a nasty thunderstorm, one day when they were scheduled to fight. Stepping out of the base for even a moment would have guaranteed that you would be wringing out your socks for the rest of the day. That alone wouldn't have cancelled a round, but when the power went out and the backup generators failed, they were given the day off.

So that was the language, then. The base was the tour van, and each round was a show. The team tacitly pieced this together and forged on with renewed confidence. Maybe this wasn't quite so impossible after all.

"Just as well we cancelled the gig," Engineer contributed. "With all that rain, it would have been unthinkable to try and keep a sentry working..."

He trailed off at the realization that he'd let slip a mention of a sentry. Though no one said a word aloud, there was a collective, _Damn_.

"What's a sentry?" Sophie asked innocently, taking another sip of tea.

Scout braced for the worst. But to his great astonishment, Spy came to his rescue.

"A sentry is a part of an accordion," he said glibly, though there was a hint of distaste in his tone when he spoke the instrument's name. "Very sensitive to humidity."

The team nodded vigorously, backing up Spy's story. But they needn't have bothered; Sophie accepted it without batting an eye.

"Must have been disappointing to have to cancel a show, though,"she said sympathetically.

"Not really," said Medic, joining the effort. "As much as we enjoy figh-... singing, a night off once in a while is a good thing."

"And the crowds we got at the other shows made up for it," Soldier said.

"Pretty big, huh?" Sophie said, with a hint of motherly pride that her son's group could attract what she imagined to be massive audiences from far and wide.

"You bet," said Scout. "And they were totally into the music."

"What did you play this time around?" she asked.

"Oh, you know..." Medic said, waving his hand vaguely."The old standards."

"Classic American folk songs," said Heavy. In his experience, "classic" and "American" were words that tended to go over well with anyone from the States.

Sophie smiled. "Oh, go on! Sing me one!"

Silent alarms started screaming. Now was the time for crisis mode.

"Oh, I don't know..." said Scout, the gears in his head turning desperately. He needed to stall somehow until he could come up with a way out of this. He'd been so anxious to see his Ma, he really had not planned this out. The team contributed a general muttering that echoed Scout's uncertainty.

"Come on, now! I couldn't have the famous BLU Thunder in my kitchen without getting at least one song out of 'em!" Sophie seemed to have misinterpreted their panic as shyness or modesty. As any team member could have assured you, that assumption was far from reality.

Ultimately, and perhaps unfortunately, it was Soldier that found the solution.

He launched into an out-of-tune rendition of 'Oh! Susanna!'.

His voice sounded like someone choking a rooster with gravel. But there was no turning back now. The rest of the team joined in with horrified reluctance, mumbling through the words they didn't know, occasionally hitting the proper pitches. Heavy was unfamiliar with the song and improvised a bass line that consisted of nothing resembling music, and more closely approximated a low motor. But they finished strong on the chorus. Or, if not strongly, confidently. Actually, just loudly. Loudness is thought by many to be the audible equivalent of confidence.

All their volume did was amplify the gaping silence that followed. Scout waited with his eyes closed for his mother's reply. It was a long time in coming.

Finally, Sophie spoke. "You... performed this... on tour?" Her voice was brittle with disbelief upon which was plastered a blank smile.

"Well," Medic said diplomatically, after a long pause, "we wanted to give that particular piece a... rustic feel."

"Authentic rural American," Sniper concurred. In his Australian accent.

Scout picked up on their direction. "We were going for a real folk performance. You know, like we were a bunch of guys in their... covered wagons or whatever. Like the songs would have been back when they started singing 'em."

"So... like a group of people with no practice or training?" Scout's mother sounded unsure.

"That's right," said Scout earnestly. And for good measure, he followed up with, "Real folksy."

"Well, then," she said with a bemused smile. "That's _exactly_ what it sounded like."

"We worked hard to make it sound like we didn't work at all," Soldier said with a broad smile that belonged on a recruiting poster.

"We got loads of other polished stuff, though," Demo said to reassure Sophie that her son wasn't a total musical failure.

"Why don't you sing one of those, then?" Scout's Ma suggested. Demo instantly became the locus of a storm of silent hatred. "I've always loved 'Shenandoah'."

"Well, y'see ma'am, we'd need me playing guitar for that one," Engineer said quickly, "but it's out in the van and it ain't been tuned."

"And I don't have my pitch pipe with me," Scout added.

"Oh, well. Maybe tomorrow." Sophie shrugged and checked the time. Late afternoon was rapidly approaching. "But I'm sure you boys want a chance to see the city! I'll be busy making supper here anyway. Go on, take a look around, I'll have dinner ready for you when you get back." Her smile had returned to her face and she shooed them good-naturedly to the door. "Have fun! Make sure you're back by six o' clock! There'll be apple pie!"

Before they really knew what was happening, the team was out the door. As Scout was the expert here, they looked to him for guidance.

"Alright, let's head to the Common and have a serious strategy talk."


	3. Chapter 3: Statement

"You guys are all dumbasses."

"We get it, Scout."

"No, I'm serious, complete and total dumbasses."

"We said we were sorry," Engineer repeated, exasperated.

"Yeah, that's real useful. Can you sell a 'sorry'? 'Cause unless you can pawn it for five grand, it ain't no good to anybody here." Scout was pacing up and down the length of the camper van, seething. He had been doing this since they'd started the twenty minute ride back to Ma's house.

"Why did you even _bring_ explosives to the Common? _It's a park_."

"Mmmph mph mphphmmm."

"That ain't no excuse, Pyro. And even if that were true, ya didn't need to get the ice cream guy involved."

"Look, he agreed that we give him the five thousand and we forget the whole thing," Sniper said, irritated but still trying mollify Scout. "We get back, get our pay, each chip in a little, and there ya go. Your mum's got her money back and no harm done. At least the police didn't get involved."

"Yeah? And in the meantime, I gotta tell Ma why I took five grand outta our emergency fund while on a walk in the city. I mean, if it weren't for the whole thing with the fountain, maybe we could have worked it out, but-"

"How many times do we have to say we are sorry, Scout?" Medic was clearly annoyed. Talking down the ice cream vendor had been a challenge, and Medic was tired. It had been a long day.

"I can't believe you guys. I _said_ nothing merc-ish." Scout sat down heavily. "Look, we're just going to tell her we were held up at a bank machine, alright?"

Everyone nodded. Anything else would blow the choir story entirely, and no one really wanted to get into the details anyway.

"And if she asks anything about why we're soaking wet and smell like smoke... It was a crazy mugger."

The rest of the ride back was spent in sullen silence, Scout still fuming, the rest feeling as though he was overreacting. They were mercs; they couldn't help it if they did this sort of thing sometimes. They'd been on their best behaviour for _hours_ and it got tiresome.

When they finally got their bedraggled selves into the entrance way, Scout's horrified mother insisted they go get cleaned up before they even thought about walking on the carpet. Scout was the one who relayed the mugging excuse.

"I'm real sorry, Ma," he said, his tone dejected. He hated to disappoint her. As for the rest of the world, he couldn't care less what they thought. But his Ma...

"Oh, sweetie pie, don't worry about the money, I'm just glad you're alright," she said, running a hand through his hair fretfully and giving him a tight hug. Great. Now he felt guilty about the money _and_ lying. "Are you sure you don't want me to give the police a call?"

"Nah, wouldn't do any good, got nothing on the guy," Scout said dismissively, pulling away. "It's alright, Ma, I'm fine."

"Well, we'll get some dinner into ya, and you'll all feel much better," she said maternally. "I made lasagna."

Scout grinned half-heartedly. "You know all my favourites." The guilt level increased.

They were settled at the dinner table before long, making banal, idle chitchat, without any real enthusiasm. Scout's Ma had eaten quickly and disappeared, and it was obvious Scout was concerned. He was fiddling with his cutlery and pushing a last scrap of noodle around and around on the plate.

"I'm gonna go check on her," he finally said, standing up abruptly.

The team looked at each other uncomfortably as the moody silence thickened. And only a few hours ago it had been so homey here...

Scout heard his mother's voice emanating from her bedroom. _Must be on the phone_,he thought. He didn't want to interrupt, so he waited outside the door, listening.

"I know it's a lot, but the mortgage payment is due Friday and I don't get paid until next Wednesday... I know... I'll have the money for you the minute I deposit my cheque, I promise... Nadine, you know I can't get a loan anymore... Yes, I know... I can't miss another, I could lose the house... Right. I understand. No, it's no problem... Yes, I'll work something out... Okay. Thanks anyway... Bye."

There was the click of a receiver being hung up. Then another sound. A damp, hiccuping sort of sound.

Ma... was crying?

Only before once in his whole life had he ever seen her cry. There was something deeply wrong about even the idea. Ma was a kind soul, but she was tough.

Scout's brain was whirring. Lose the house? But they couldn't lose the house! They'd all grown up in this house. This was _their_ house.

But they'd never had much money to throw around. And five grand was a lot.

Ma could lose the house. And it would be _their fault_.

He turned and walked numbly back to his team.

"Scout?" There was trepidation in Heavy's tone. "What is wrong?"

"That money we used..." Scout's voice was hollow. "We gotta earn it back. By Friday."

"Friday? Scout, it's two weeks until our next payday. Why Friday?" Sniper was frowning.

"'Cause if Ma doesn't have the money by then," Scout said quietly, "she misses another mortgage payment, and we lose the house."

There was a weighty pause.

"I'm mighty sorry about that, Scout," Engineer said eventually, placing a hand on Scout's shoulder, "but how can we earn back the money by Friday?"

"I don't know, but we have to... we can't just..." Scout trailed off. "I don't know." He spoke in a whisper.

But then Sophie was back, looking entirely composed, if you didn't know her. Scout, on the other hand, noticed that her hairband was askew, which was entirely out of character. She was very particular about those things; after all, in a house of eight wild boys, someone needed to maintain at least a semblance of order.

"Right then," she said, in an overly cheerful voice. "Sorry about that, I was just... I'll clear away then and... Right. Dessert. I made pie." She gave them a brittle smile.

They responded with strained enthusiasm, with was essentially the tone of the rest of the evening. They ate the pie, and they chatted in the sitting room, and they listened to the radio, and they did all this with a sort of intense joviality. For men who were entirely unused to cheerfulness, fake or otherwise, it was exhausting.

Sophie was flipping through the newspaper absent-mindedly while they talked with feigned interest about how the drive up had been. Then Sophie smiled at something in the paper.

"Too bad you boys aren't staying a little longer," she said. "Says here there's a folk festival on Tuesday. Got a competition and everything. I'm sure BLU Thunder could clean up."

"That's a pity," Engineer said, "but we gotta be back on the road by then."

Scout peered over her shoulder, squinting at the advertisement.

"Workshops, concerts, contest..." Then he stopped, eyes wide. "And a ten thousand dollar top prize."

He looked sharply up at his teammates who rapidly found the walls and ceiling completely fascinating.

"What I wouldn't give for ten grand," Sophie said with a laugh, but her expression betrayed her unhappiness.

"Yeah," Scout said, unnervingly pensive.

Before long, Sophie announced that she was turning in for the night. Once the chorus of good nights had faded, and Scout's Ma was out of earshot, Scout spread the paper out on the coffee table.

"That's it!" he said excitedly, pointing to the ad. "That's how we get the money! We enter BLU Thunder in the competition!"

"Are you crazy, boy?" Soldier barked. "There's no way-"

"But it's so perfect!" Scout interrupted, standing and starting to pace the length of the small room. "We get the money for Ma, plus a little extra for ourselves, and we convince her for good that we're a bona fide folk choir!"

"Except for one problem, Scout," Medic said, head in his hands. "You seeem to keep forgetting that _we are not actually a folk choir_."

"Not yet!" said Scout, head over heels with his rapidly forming idea. "We're not a folk choir _yet!_"

"And you want us to become one," Spy said flatly.

"Yes."

"A prize-winning one."

"Yes!"

"By Tuesday."

"Yes..." In the wake of sudden clarity, doubt was beginning to form in Scout's mind. He stopped pacing and bit his lip in worried thought.

"So, to summarize," Spy said, clapping his hands together and striding over to Scout, "we enter a competition for which we have no training, somehow become skilled enough to win in three days, and make it back to Teufort in time to start work the next day."

Scout looked at him hopefully. "Yes?"

"You... are unbelievable."

"Come on, guys! We can do this! Engie already plays guitar, and... and folk songs ain't that hard and..." He dropped his head, crest-fallen. "...and I can't let my Ma down," he said in a very small voice.

"Not a chance, boyo," slurred Demo.

"Guys... We gotta at least try..." Scout looked desperately from teammate to teammate. "Heavy? Pyro? Engie?" He trailed off hopelessly.

"We're all agreed, boy," Soldier said. "We are not going to sing."

Scout turned to his last hope, Sniper.

"Come on, Snipes..." he said. "You're on my side... Right?"

Sniper looked hard at Scout.

Scout took a deep breath and spoke a word none of the team had ever heard him say:

"Please?"

And then all eyes were on Sniper.

It had been fun before, watching Scout squirm. Messing with him was a favourite pastime of the BLUS; hell, it was practically their official hobby. But now...

Sniper led a simple life. His interest and expertise were confined to those skills which kept him alive and killing. Very little else mattered to him and was therefore outside of the realm of his knowledge, and he liked it that way. But there was one other thing that he understood very, very well, and that was family.

His mum and dad back home in Australia didn't approve of him. Sometimes he wasn't sure they even liked him. But he kept in touch and sent them money, and they were always there if he needed them because _that's what family does_. There are some things you do for the people who raised you, even if some days you can't stand them. And there are some things you do for the people that would take a bullet for you, even if only to make sure they'd do it twice.

The pictures lined the mantel, sat in frames on tables, adorned the walls. Pictures of babies in cribs, of children at a birthday party, of a solemn young man in uniform, of kids by the Christmas tree. Children, aunts, uncles, cousins... They were all there. But Sophie wasn't in a single picture.

But that wasn't quite true, was it? There was one of Scout's brothers, an infant, dressed in the onesie she'd knit. There was the cake with "Happy Birthday" scrawled on it in her hand. There was the bandaid, carefully placed on a child's knee.

Sniper picked up a picture. Scout was young, maybe seven, and he was holding a violin and a bouquet of roses. The writing on the card attached to the flowers was just visible if you squinted:

_Music to my ears, sweetie pie! Congrats on the show!_

Sniper put the picture down. "We're going to sing."

"You can't be serious!" Medic was incredulous.

"Yeah. I am," Sniper said, as Scout gave him a suspicious look that nonetheless held a hint of optimism. "Scout's gotten us all in quite a mess. But as a professional, I have standards-"

"Not this again!" Demo groaned, but Sniper went on without a remark.

"-and those standards tell me that mums are never collateral damage. Not if there's anything we can do about it." He stared down the other mercs.

There was no response from them. They looked completely unaffected by Sniper's words. So Sniper kept going.

"Think of your parents back home," he said, trying a new angle. "You wouldn't want anything to happen to them, right?"

"Is that a threat?" Soldier demanded.

"What? No!" Sniper said, baffled. "Why would I even...? Look, what I'm saying is, if you could stop them from getting hurt, you'd do it. Like you, Engie," he continued, addressing their resident tinkerer. "When your dad needed that operation, you wired money home for weeks!"

"I was raised that family takes care of family," Engineer grumbled, "but this is-"

"And you!" Sniper now turned to Demo. "Your mum back home. You take care of her no matter what she puts you through!"

"What kind of monster would leave a blind old woman to fend for herself?" Demoman replied, horrified.

"And Heavy," Sniper said, his voice low. "Don't tell me that you weren't involved in getting your family out of that gulag. Even so long ago, you were looking out for them."

Heavy was silent, as was not unusual for him. But by the look on his face, and those on the faces of his teammates, he had them thinking. But he still had to seal the deal.

"So this woman, who raises eight kids by herself, including this maniac, who put her through hell, I'm sure," he said, pointing to the dumbstruck Scout, "she raises 'em without even a thought for herself, and then puts us up for a weekend and makes us cookies, and she doesn't even know us..." He paused for breath. "You want to break that woman's heart. All 'cause you don't have the guts to get up and sing a damn song."

There was still no reply from the mercs, although a spasm of uncomfortable fidgeting seemed to have overtaken them all.

"Even mercs need standards. Else we're just killers." Sniper's tone was softer now. "And I say that one of those standards needs to be that mums don't get hurt."

The silence stretched out as Scout held his breath.

"So." Sniper looked them each dead in the eye. "Are we gonna do this? Or not?"


	4. Chapter 4: Development

They told Sophie about their plan to enter the competition over a breakfast of smiley face pancakes the next morning. Naturally, she was delighted and had no problem with them staying a couple of extra days. They managed to get some time away from her to strategize when they told her they couldn't go along to church because they needed to practice. Also, they suspected that stepping into a church might cause God to smite them, as though He were a holy sentry or something. It had been a while; their theology was rusty.

Once she was gone, it had taken two pots of coffee and an hour and a half of bickering, but they eventually had a plan.

Actually, what they had was a doodle-covered sheet of paper stained with coffee and a few drops of blood. But in between the misshapen sketches of artillery, there was a to-do list, which is sort of like a plan:

Call Miss Pauling. Get break extended.

Register for the contest.

Pick out some songs..

Find an accordion.

Practice.

Scout said he could handle the first item because of his natural rapport with Miss Pauling. This set off twenty minutes off arguing about whether or not this rapport actually existed, concluding with bets on whether Pauling would hang up on him.

Closer inspection of the advertisement showed that they had missed the registration date. But it was unanimously agreed upon that Spy could get them in no problem, that was his job, wasn't it? Secret documents and sneaking sort of things? And then it was unanimously agreed upon that Spy's other speciality was being a pretentious whiner. Naturally, Spy's vote was not counted in these unanimous decisions. They decided to include Heavy in this endeavour, just in case things went sideways and some muscle was needed. Despite being unable to conceive of a situation in which choir registration could lead to physical violence, the mercs generally assumed that physical violence was always a possibility, and acted accordingly.

Engie, Soldier, and Scout were deemed the most qualified to pick out folk songs to sing, as they were the only confirmed Americans. Naturally, this last part was silently understood; Soldier didn't need to know about the whole not-everyone-here-is-American thing.

The accordion would be difficult. First off, it needed to be available in time for Spy to learn to play it. Second, it needed to be free. It was not the sort of mission where an ad in the classifieds would do the trick. The remaining team members were assigned to this task. Then they thought better of including Pyro and decided to have that volatile individual stay home and practice the shaker and not burn things.

As for practice... Well, they would deal with that when they got there. Postponement was an easier solution than actually figuring out how they would put together something resembling music.

But first things first.

* * *

"Hey, Miss Pauling-"

"Scout? Is that you?! How did you get this number?"

"Called 411, it ain't that hard, listen-"

"If this is just another one of your misguided attempts to get me to go out for drinks with you, then-"

"No, it ain't that. Look, I'm calling to ask if BLU can get their break extended."

"You want your break extended?"

"Just by a couple of days. It's real important."

"Sorry, Scout, two weeks is all the vacation time you get for the season."

Scout exhaled in frustration. "What about sick days?"

"You don't get sick days. There's a medigun for that."

"Family leave?" He was grasping at straws now.

"You're kidding, right?"

"Please, Miss Pauling! If we can't stay up here a couple more days, things are gonna go badly for my Ma." He paused, listening to the static crackling from the receiver. "She's my _Ma_, Miss Pauling." It was a tone that sounded remarkably like pleading, and remarkably unlike the Scout that Miss Pauling knew.

Scout knew he'd won when he heard a sigh of resignation from the other end of the line. "Alright, I'll see what I can do. No promises, though."

"Aw, yeah! Thanks Miss Pauling, you're the best!" Scout's smile was practically audible over the phone.

"I'll let you know if I come up with anything."

"I owe ya one." He paused, then added mischievously, "Maybe I can repay the favour on two-for-one mojito night at-"

"_Goodbye,_ Scout." Miss Pauling was firm.

"Eh. Worth a shot."

He hung up, and then there was a brief exchange of words determining who had won which bets. Sniper maintained that he should win the "outright rejection" bet, whereas Soldier argued that she had stayed on the line too long for that. Eventually, things descended into petty insults, then minor brawling, then everyone forgot what they had been arguing about. It was a normal day.

Eventually, Sophie returned from church and some quick errands. They ate leftover lasagna for lunch while she told them stories about Scout's childhood, the team trying to suppress their giggles. They weren't very successful.

"He had this weird fear of ducks. Couldn't take him to the park or nothing. It lasted years, too." She shook her head, laughing. "I served duck for dinner once and he wouldn't even come out of his room. You know, one time when he was about five, we was kicked out of a movie theatre because he threw at fit at a scene with ducklings. He was the only kid there who got scared at _Bambi_."

Scout blushed red enough to set off a BLU sentry as the team laughed along with Sophie. He knew from their expressions that he would never, ever live this down.

"I mean, ducks and Boston go hand in hand. It ain't like he'd grown up never seeing 'em. Never understood it," Sophie went on, taking a bite of lasagna.

"Ducks bite," Scout muttered sulkily.

"Aww, wee lad is afraid of a nip, is he?" Demo teased with a wicked grin.

"_Was_," Scout said. "I was real little."

"Not as little as you'd like your friends to think," Sophie countered, and Scout's shade of crimson deepened.

"He cried his first day of school," she continued. "Wouldn't let go of my hand. Couldn't believe it. Stuck to his brothers the whole day. But he got bold before long. Not a week went by when the school wasn't calling me, saying he'd been fighting with the other kids. I mean, my boys were all scrappers, but he was the worst of them all. Bet that's hard to imagine now that he's your choir mate," she said with a gentle smile at her son.

The team muttered in amused agreement, all of them picturing Scout on the battlefield, bashing skulls with his bat.

"Scout? A fighter?" Medic feigned surprise. "I never would have guessed." Scout rolled his eyes at him as he smirked.

"Anyway, he seems to have turned out alright," she said. "But he's got a black eye in half our photographs."

"Can we see some of these pictures? Scout's never shown us anything from when he was a kid," Sniper said innocently. But the look he shot to Scout made it clear that this was his payment for getting the team to sing, and Scout knew he had no choice but to grit his teeth and bear it.

"Why sure, there's an album out in the sitting room, I'll show you after lunch," she said, happily oblivious.

Scout sighed. And the visit had seemed like such a good idea before.

It was going to be a long weekend.


	5. Chapter 5: Modulation

Spy and Heavy hadn't lied this time. They _were_ going for an evening walk.

And along the way, it just so happened that they would be stopping by the downtown office of the Boston Musical Heritage Society.

Spy swore as he jiggled the lock picks. "_Vas-y, vas-y... _Gah!"

"There is problem?" Heavy asked, frowning. The change in expression resembled the movement of continents. The massive man just barely fit in the alley that housed the back entrance.

"The lock is stuck," Spy grunted, trying more force. "Must be rusted, or perhaps broken." He beat against the door, letting out a string of French expletives.

"Stand back," Heavy grunted, lifting Spy by the shoulders and placing him behind him.

"Heavy, what are you-?" Spy began, horrified realization dawning as Heavy drew back one massive fist. "Heavy, no! You are going to get us-"

Heavy's fist hurtled towards the door, but before it got there-

-the door opened, revealing a short, plump young woman clutching a clipboard.

Heavy tried to stop his swing. Really, he did. But there are laws which one cannot contradict, and those concerning momentum were working against him.

"Hello? You know this is the back-" the woman started to say.

Then Heavy's punch connected with her forehead.

The woman staggered backwards, blinked, and tumbled over, completely unconscious.

Spy glared at Heavy disbelievingly.

"I try to stop," Heavy said with a worried shrug. "Was not hard punch. Door need only little push."

"Do me a favour," Spy growled, "and do not move until I tell you. C_omprennez-vous?_" He didn't wait for an answer. He pushed past Heavy and went to the limp woman. An impressive bruise was already forming on her forehead, but her pulse was fine. Still, she couldn't have withstood a hit from Heavy entirely unscathed, and it would be better by far not to get doctors involved...

"Plan B," Spy muttered under his breath.

* * *

Margaret McKelsey was quite certain this would be the best folk festival they'd ever put together. She was making sure of it. And this year, with her new status as Assistant Manager of Hospitality, she could finally get out some of those great ideas she'd had since she joined the society. No more of those awful raisin cookies at the competitors' refreshment table, oh no; this year, there would be chocolate chip, _double_ chocolate chip if she could swing it. And name tags with _pins_ instead of those annoying lanyards.

Oh yes, she would prove to them all that she deserved this promotion. Some people said she'd only gotten it because Deirdre had gotten a paying job and didn't have time to volunteer anymore, but she'd show them she'd earned it. And maybe next year she'd even get bumped up to _Manager_ of Hospitality, a position that came with a lucrative twenty dollar thank-you gift certificate to the grocery store.

Yes, Margaret McKelsey was was moving up in the world, even if it was only the small world of the Boston Musical Heritage Society. She wasn't going to waste this chance. So she was at the office on the weekend, putting the finishing touches on the border for the programs.

That's why it was so strange to hear knocking. Especially at the back door. The office was closed, and even when Derek showed up to finish off paperwork, he used the front door. But there was a chance it could be the delivery guy with the floral pattern paper cups she'd special ordered.

Regardless, she had to at least go see who it was. So she gathered up the clipboard that held her meticulously organized checklist and went to door.

The next thing she knew, she was waking up on the lumpy couch in the entrance hall, head pounding.

"Wha-..." she said groggily. She thought she heard a sound, like when the laser powered down in that alien movie she and Josie had gone to that weekend. But she had to have been imagining it.

She squinted blearily. There was a man there, one she didn't recognize. "Hello?" she asked tremulously.

Spy finished shoving the Medigun behind the couch and straightened up quickly. It was a good thing Scout was such a fast runner; he'd brought it in time for Spy to almost completely heal the office worker before she came to. And while he'd waited, he'd had enough time to fill out an application form for the competition and to have a cursory scan of the woman's desk and papers. He felt he had enough intel to work with. This shouldn't be too difficult anyway, especially with Heavy waiting around the corner instead of impeding his work. Thankfully, Spy had been able to convince Scout to go back to his mother's house, so at least he wouldn't be getting in the way.

"Hello," Spy said, affecting a Bostonian accent to go along with his hastily donned postal worker disguise. "How do you feel?"

"Sore," Margaret replied, sitting up and rubbing her head. "What happened?"

"You don't remember?" Spy asked, doing his best to keep his hopefulness from creeping into his tone. This would be so much easier if she didn't remember Heavy.

"No, I..." She frowned, concentrating. "There was a knock on the door... I went to answer it... Then I was here." She looked up, puzzled and suspicious "With you. Who are you?"

"Just the mailman, ma'am," Spy replied promptly. "I was doing the late rounds, and there was no answer at the front door, but the envelope said urgent, so I tried the back. The door came open when I knocked, and there ya was, on the ground. I think ya fainted, caught yourself a knock on the head, but you'll be alright." He gave her a winning smile.

"It was open? How strange..." Margaret trailed off, thinking. When she had been silent a few moments, Spy cleared his throat and extended the envelope to her.

"There ya go, ma'am," he said. "Guy who dropped it off at the post office said it was an application for the folk festival competition."

"But the due date has already passed for those," she said, standing carefully as she tore open the envelope. "We can't accept any more."

"Well, the guy said that he'd sent one in already, before the cutoff date, but it had gotten lost in the mail," Spy said. "Couldn't you make an exception?"

"I wish I could, but a deadline's a deadline. And anyway," she went on, examining the form, "They didn't put down their rep."

"Excuse me?" Spy said, becoming concerned.

"Their rep," Margaret told him. "You know, repertoire. The songs they'll be performing. I need to finish the programs so they can be printed up for Tuesday, and I need to know everyone's rep. No rep list, no way." She spoke in the tone of a soldier, a staunch defender of her noble post, despite that noble post being only Assistant Manager of Hospitality. Spy sighed internally. It was clear that she would not be budged.

Time for Plan C.

"Listen, Ms. McKelsey," he said, shifting into a highly professional American accent. Margaret started in surprise. Spy went on. "I have not been totally honest with you. My name," he intoned, "is Inspector Andrew Slate, FBI."

"FBI?" Margaret stared at him, wide-eyed.

"Indeed," Spy said, nodding solemnly. "We have been observing this office for the past several days, as we suspect there may be Soviet spies operating here undercover."

"Soviet spies?" Margaret was horrified. "I swear Inspector, I'm not one of them, I-"

"You are not being accused, Ms. McKelsey," Spy reassured her. "In fact, I am here for your protection. I was not being truthful when I said you fainted." He took a deep breath. "You were attacked by a Soviet agent."

Margaret was stunned into silence. She gaped at Spy, who continued.

"We are sending the top secret Choral Operations Team, of which I am a member, to Tuesday's festival, under the guise of competing in the folk choir contest," he said. "That is why I need you to accept this application."

Even in her fear, Margaret managed to hesitate. "But the rep-"

"I will get the list of repertoire to you by morning," Spy cut her off, unable to believe that she was still fixating on the programs.

"I don't know..." Margaret said. "I mean, I just got this promotion, I don't want to go and, you know, stir the pot or anything..."

Spy knew people. Spy understood people. And he knew who Margaret McKelsey was: a person with a small life who can fathom little outside its tiny boundaries. These people ruled over inconsequential kingdoms of petty cares, which they took deadly seriously. Even when presented with events of great importance, they clung to the idea that their work was a critical priority, because their world was too small to withstand the removal of this cornerstone. He'd hoped he wouldn't have to play his trump card, but Margaret clearly needed one final push, and desperate times call for desperate measures. It wasn't that he had any objections to using this particular talent. It was just that he was typically using it on gorgeous women with money and power, not pudgy graduate students in corduroy pantsuits.

"Margaret," he said. "May I call you Margaret?" He didn't wait for a reply. "I know we've only just met... But in all my time working for the FBI, meeting dozens of women, well... I've never felt a connection like this." When he saw the look on Margaret's face, he almost felt guilty. After all, his other targets had known the game, while Margaret didn't even know a game was afoot. But he was too far into this now to turn back. "I know this must be so sudden and difficult for you. But if I couldn't protect you from those Soviet agents, I... I don't if I could live with myself."

Margaret was seeing a whole new world open up before her. No one had ever spoken to her like this before, never. Creepy Walter in her Linguistics course didn't count. This was romance, just like in those novels she read, sudden and dramatic and alluring. She'd never believed it could ever happen to her, and yet here was a beautiful secret agent, right here in front of her, professing love at first sight. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest in the most delightful way.

He brushed back her hair tenderly. "Please, Margaret," he said in hushed tones, giving her his best smouldering look.

It worked.

"Oh... Alright," she said with faux exasperation. "But you're on the hook if I get in trouble over this." She would play coy and hard-to-get. She was no floozy. She couldn't just give in that easily. She was a proper lady, and she would be aloof to the young man who thought (correctly) that he could so easily win her fancy.

Spy smiled. "Thank you... Maggie." She nearly swooned.

Five minutes later, Spy and Heavy were walking down the street in silence. Heavy wasn't the type to ask questions, and Spy wasn't the type to give answers, so it worked out well. All Heavy wanted to know was whether Spy had succeeded, and once certain he had, he was content with that. For his part, Spy was badly in need of a cigarette after that most humiliating mission.

Scout owed him. Oh, yes. He would be paying him back for a long time to come.


	6. Chapter 6: Variation

Author's note: I don't usually like writing author's notes, but I wanted to thank everyone for the remarkable support I've received! I honestly doubted that anyone would read this, let alone enjoy it, so this has been a highly pleasant surprise. Thanks!

Additionally, if anyone has been wondering, the chapters are named for different, usually successive elements of musical form.

PS: As Medic states in this chapter, rubbing alcohol _is_ poisonous, please do not drink it (AKA, don't try this at home, kids!).

Right, then. The next installment:

* * *

Sniper, Demo, and Medic were also out for a walk, although they had no real destination. After all, when you're looking for a free and immediately available accordion on a Saturday evening, you can pretty much walk anywhere and have an equal chance of finding one.

"You're going to get us arrested for public intoxication," Sniper grumbled at Demo.

"Shut yer gob," Demo belched, smacking his lips after a large gulp of Scumpy. "I can't drink while Sophie's looking, so I've gotta make the most of it while I can."

"Where does all that Scumpy even_ come _from?" Medic asked. "I've never seen you buy any."

"Came with my contract," he said, eyeing the bottle fondly. "Made it a condition of my hiring."

"They give you free alcohol?" Medic was amazed. "I should have thought of that..."

"Why don't ya just drink the stuff in the infirmary?" Demo slurred.

Medic stared. "That's rubbing alcohol."

"And?"

"It's _toxic_."

"Don't be daft. Booze is booze."

"And rubbing alcohol is _not booze_-"

"Yes, it is-"

"_Nein_, it is not-"

"Is."

"You are completely-"

"Will you two lay off it!?" Sniper snapped. "Bad enough I gotta be out here looking for a bloody accordion of all things, I shouldn't have to listen to your bickering! _This_ is why I prefer to work alone."

"It is not my fault if Demo is a moronic inebriate and I need to correct him before he poisons himself," Medic said, rather sulkily.

"Yeah? Well, your mother is so-"

"Quiet!" Sniper said holding up a finger.

"Oh no, he's got this coming, the bloody-"

"No, be quiet and listen!" Sniper had stopped walking and had gone still. The others, trusting his Sniper senses, paused as well.

"Hear that?" He was getting excited.

"No," Demo replied confidently. "Mind, being around explosions so much hasn't exactly done wonders for my hearing."

"It's an accordion! Someone's playing an accordion..." He tilted his head from left to right. "...that way!" He took a left turn and began striding rapidly down the twisting streets. Demo looked at Medic. Medic shrugged. They followed.

Sniper was like a bloodhound on a scent. He tracked the sound of the accordion across lanes of traffic, through winding alleys, under overpasses. Neither of his compatriots could hear a thing for the first few minutes, but Sniper's hearing was legendary. It was part of what had made him the best hunter in the Outback. Before too long, they were rewarded with the wheezing sound of the instrument drifting over the city noise.

"Almost there, mates, almost there..." Sniper's tracking senses, although never before used for locating instruments, were totally engaged, and as they got closer he was picking up speed. "Should be just around this—there!"

Sniper was pointing dead ahead. They were on a busy sidewalk near Faneuil Hall. Demo and Medic caught up to him and followed his gaze.

A grubby, bearded young man sat on the street corner, playing the accordion, the case open in front of him. There was a smattering of coins and a few small bills inside, but nothing substantial. He sang as he played:

"Yeah, yeah, yeah,  
Don't you know we're all the same  
Don't you know we gotta live as brothers  
Don't you know we gotta fight the man  
Don't you know that... um...  
Yeah, yeah, yeah!"

The three mercenaries exchanged looks. The musician was clearly one of those "folk song army" people, singing what had to be his own composition, since no one in their right mind would cover it. Normally, this kind of person was one they attempted to avoid at all costs. But they were on a mission.

"G'day, mate," Sniper said, greeting him with tentative friendliness.

The young man acknowledged him with a nod as he sang:

"Yeah, yeah, yeah,  
Peace and love and harmony and...  
Yeah, yeah, yeah!"

He finished with an enthusiastic cadence on the accordion, then looked up at Sniper. He seemed to be waiting for something.

"Um... Great song, mate," Sniper said with a strained smile, inwardly cringing at having to praise that racket.

"Thanks," he said, continuing to stare. Sniper looked back, becoming more uncomfortable with each passing second. Then the man's eyes flicked down to his accordion case, then back to Sniper.

Oh. He should have guessed. He scrounged in his pockets and managed to come up with some spare change. He tossed it in the case.

"Thanks, man," the musician said, having apparently deemed the offering acceptable. "What's shaking?"  
Sniper suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "That's a nice accordion you got there."

"Got this one when I was backpacking in Europe. Man, that was a time..." He trailed off, lost in fond day dreams of bad decisions.

Sniper cleared his throat to bring him back to reality. "Listen, my friends and I here are looking for an accordion." He looked back to Medic and Demo who waved amiably, grinning like salesmen.

"You play? Sweet, man. Well, that place on 9th might have something..." He scratched his patchy goatee as he thought.

"Actually," Medic said, stepping in, "we need an accordion as soon as possible. Tonight, actually."

"That's rough, man. The stores'll be closing any minute."

"We were thinking," Medic said pointedly, trying a more obvious approach, "that yours would do just fine."

The man looked up at them with an expression of calculating suspicion. "What'cha offering?"

"Our eternal gratitude?" Sniper said with a hopeless smile.

"Sorry, man. Gotta have something more than that," he said, shaking his head and laughing.

"But please..." Medic said with melodramatic pleading. "We are in desperate need of an accordion because..." He realized that there was no reason he could give for their accordion crisis, short of them being a group of professional killers who were suddenly thrown into a world of deception and choral performance, an explanation that was neither believable nor sympathetic. He looked to Sniper. "Well, maybe my friend here can tell you."

Sniper glared. "Nah, Tavish tells it best. Tavish!"  
Demo looked up guiltily from the Scumpy he'd been trying to drink undisturbed. He'd hoped to avoid getting involved so he could drink in peace.

"Well, uh... We... uh..." Thoughts surfaced and sank ephemerally in the soggy recesses of his brain. Thankfully, he was saved in the nick of time.

"Woah! Is that Scumpy?" The accordion player was on his feet, sharply alert and with a hungry expression.

"Um..." He looked at the bottle in his fist. He wasn't sure whether saying yes would be a good idea or not.

"Man! That stuff's the best! When I was in Scotland on my backpacking trip, I got totally hooked on it! Can't get it here in the States, though," he said, abruptly moody. Then he brightened. "Say... I might be able to see my way clear to handing over my accordion if there were more Scumpy where that came from." He gave them a sly grin.

"More? You kidding? We got loads!" Sniper said eagerly.

"Are you for real? Man! Yeah, I'll trade you the instrument if you get me the Scumpy." He had an expression of intense longing as he stared at the bottle.

"You will actually trade your instrument for booze?" Medic was incredulous.

"Not booze. _Scumpy,_" the man said, looking as though he was likely to kiss the drink ay second now. "That stuff is _nectar_."

Demo had once given him a taste of his favoured drink, and Sniper struggled to imagine that alcoholic dishwater being described as nectar. But hey, if that's what this kid wanted, that was alright with Sniper.

"You can have the lot," he said with a broad smile.

"Hey, now-" Demo began.

"Deal!" The young man shook his hand vigorously. "Oh man, I can't wait-"

"Now just a bloody second here!" Demo said, flustered. "This is _my Scumpy_. You can't go around trading my property for accordions!"  
"You get it for free in your contract." Sniper was dismissive. "You'll be getting more when we get back."

"Well, to give away my it, you'll have to _find_ my it!" Demo said with drunken pride. "Good luck with that!"  
"It's behind the loose panel by the back seat of the camper van," Medic said, a degree of smugness in his tone.

"Wha- How did you-?" Demo caught himself. "I mean... no, it isn't!"

"You are not exactly the master of subtly," Medic drawled wryly.

"So it's settled then!" Sniper said, hoping to finish this conversation as quickly as possible. We'll get you the Scumpy, and then we'll-"

"Aw, wait," said the musician, his face falling. "I'm only here playing 'cause I need money for a bus ticket to Springfield. If I give you my accordion, there's no way for me to get there." He looked crushed. "Sorry, man. I'm flat broke and I gotta get to Springfield ASAP."

Sniper looked back at his compatriots. He raised an eyebrow. Medic gave a resigned shrug and nodded. Demo was a picture of drunken confusion and dread.

Sniper turned back to the musician. "We may be able to lend a hand."

* * *

"Have you guys ever been backpacking before? It's amazing, man. You just leave everything behind, all these crazy walls society's put up for us, and you just... _be_. You know?"

"Sure." Sniper squinted ahead as the camper van trundled along the darkening highways towards Springfield.

"I mean, things are _real_ over there, man. Not like here."

"Uh huh." The things he put up with...

"One time, I was staying at this little hostel outside of Dublin, and..."

At this point, Sniper deliberately tuned out. It sounded like it was going to be a long story, and if he didn't have to respond, he sure wasn't going to listen. The man droned on in that weird, spaced-out way of his and Sniper just kept his eyes focussed on the road. He was able to remain this way for a merciful twenty minutes.

"...and after we got all the molasses out of the dryer, turned out I only needed four stitches! Crazy! Am I right?" The man was laughing.

"Sure. Yeah." This had to be some kind of karmic punishment.

"Anyway, that's how I accidentally became a minister." He stared into space dreamily, still chuckling. Then he turned back to Sniper. "So where did you say you were from again?"

"Australia," Sniper said. It broke his streak of monosyllabic answers, but since it was only one word, he was doing pretty well on the not-making-conversation front. If only he had Medic and Demo to deflect some of the attention, but Medic was busy trying to keep Demo from downing the Scumpy in one go, so he was left to fend for himself.

"Man, that place is groovy. See many wild animals?"

_Through my rifle scope_. "Nah. Live in the city." Sniper did not want to get into the details of his life.

"Sweet, man. I bet that place is just so alive! I wanna go there some day." The man had a remarkable talent for turning any conversation back to himself, but that suited Sniper just fine. "Gotta travel South Asia first, though. Those monks there, they totally know what's going on, you know? They _get_ it. I got this friend who once climbed this mountain to meet this guru guy, right, and ask him about the secrets of life, you know? He had this local guide who knew everything about the area, and..."

Oh good, another long story. They'd been driving for most of an hour now. Probably another hour or so to go. As long as the kid just kept talking, they should be-

"Hey, guys! Wanna sing Kumbaya? _Kum-ba-yaaaaaaa my lorrrrrrrrd! Kum-ba-yaaaaaaaaaaaa!_"

The only mercy was that his gun wasn't loaded.


	7. Chapter 7: Cadenza

Scout was not a leader.

Scout ran. Scout shot things. Scout hit things.

Scout did not strategize, Scout did not command, and Scout definitely did not organize.

He would have to learn quickly.

Heavy and Spy were getting them registered. Sniper, Demo, and Medic were getting the accordion. Soldier, Engineer, and Pyro were back at the house, the former two deciding on repertoire, the latter contentedly listening to some tacky radio show.

As for Scout...

His brain was a scattered, chaotic mess. There were just too many balls to keep in the air. He had to keep the lie going, make sure his teammates got their tasks done and didn't ruin everything, and somehow find time to be a dutiful son. It was a battlefield unlike any he had ever encountered. At least at Teufort, you knew where you stood, and you knew that at the end of the day, Respawn would fix pretty well anything.

This... This was insanity.

And as for enjoying a pleasant visit with Ma,well, he could forget about that entirely.

Everything had been more or less under control. He had Engie, Soldier, and Pyro in the sitting room. He was with Ma in the kitchen, helping with the dishes. They were having a pleasant enough chat, Scout managing to conceal his twanging nerves as his mother updated him on the latest news from his brothers.

Then the phone rang.

"Lake residence, wassup?" he answered, clamping the receiver under his chin as he dried his hands on the dish towel.

"Scout, this is Spy." The connection was full of static, but the tension in the Frenchman's voice was clear.

"Oh, uh, hey Spy, what's going on?" Scout kept his tone light to avoid arousing suspicion, but his heart was sinking.

"I need the Medigun."

"Um... okay...?" he said, in an attempt to prompt further explanation as a fluttering blossom of panic bloomed in his chest.

"No time to explain, just bring it."

"Alright, I'll be there in a few-"

The line went dead. Spy had hung up.

"What was that about, honey?" Ma asked over her shoulder as Scout replaced the receiver.

"Spy forgot..." Scout fumbled for a lie, "...forgot his... wallet. Yeah. He was just asking me to bring it for him. He wanted to buy... ice cream." The idea of Spy eating an ice cream cone was unthinkably bizarre, but Ma didn't know that. "So I'm just gonna... Yeah."

"Seems a lot of effort for an ice cream." Ma sounded mildly disapproving.

"Yeah, well," Scout said, "Spy loves his ice cream." And he strode nonchalantly out of the house, breaking into a run the moment he was out the door.

Once he'd managed to drag the Medigun out of the camper van and wrestle it onto his back, he began a dead sprint to the Boston Musical Heritage Society's Office. His mind was racing even faster than his feet. What had they done? Who was hurt? Had anyone seen? It was Heavy that did it, wasn't it? He always solved problems with his fists. No, it would be Spy, that vicious, backstabbing snake. Oh god, what if it wasn't one of them who was hurt? It probably wasn't. Who'd they attack? Why couldn't they just pretend to be normal for one damn day?

As he reached the downtown, the sidewalks grew more and more crowded. It would be too slow to weave his way through, so he took to the streets, running alongside the traffic. He was faster than the cars, especially with the city congestion, and he passed them before it even occurred to anyone to try and stop him.

But quite abruptly, he felt his lungs began to pain him, a stabbing sensation appear in his side. The Medigun was _heavy_, and Scout was a sprinter, not a pack mule. For the first time in a long time, he was tiring, and badly. But he had to move, who knew what kind of mess Spy and Heavy had made, the sooner he got there, the better...

He skidded to a halt in front of the office building, where he saw Spy waving to him from the back alley. He staggered over and shoved the Medigun into Spy's waiting arms.

"What... have you... done?" Scout managed between gasps of air.

"Minor setback," Spy said, his tone supremely unconcerned. "No need for you to remain here."

"Oh yes, there is," Scout said, having almost caught his breath. "I ain't leaving 'til I find out what you two've done."

"Very well," Spy shrugged, and led him inside.

"A girl?" Scout squawked in horror as he saw the figure on the threadbare couch. "You hit a girl? Even I never hit a girl!"

"Was accident," said Heavy, though he seemed a little embarrassed. "Was aiming for door."

"Look," said Scout, his voice taut with barely restrained violence. "Just... just fix this, okay? I got too much on my mind to deal with this stuff, so..." He trailed off and settled for an emphatic gesture at the prone young woman before him.

"That is what I was doing," Spy said, irritated. He hefted the Medigun, then paused. "You said you were busy..?" He directed this pointedly at Scout, with a glance toward the door.

"Oh no," Scout said, crossing his arm. "I'm sticking around. Someone's gotta make sure she's okay."

"Scout, when she wakes up, there should be as few people as possible here. It will make explanations easier," Spy told him impatiently. "_Alors vas-y, p'tit lapin!_"

Scout hesitated, never a fan of doing anything Spy told him to, but he was unable to deny the reason in the statement, and he _was_ needed back at the house. So he settled for mumbling something unintelligible but insulting in tone, and leaving at a run.

When he got back to the house, he checked on the Engineer and Soldier's.

"Hey, how's the rep coming along?" he asked, flopping down into the armchair.

"It would be going better if this one didn't only want to sing army marching songs," Engineer said peevishly, jerking his thumb at a glowering Soldier.

"Best songs out there!" Soldier shot back. "Real American songs!"

"All American folk songs are American." Engineer buried his head in his hands.

"But these are _real _American! They're what America's about! Freedom and marching and shooting things! None of this namby-pamby crap you're suggesting!"  
"'Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie' is a classic, you good-fer-nothin' Yankee!"

"What did you just say to me?!" Soldier barked.

"Guys!" Scout interrupted. "Cut it out, Ma's just in the next room. Soldier, no marching tunes. Engie, no cowboy songs. Got it? Now look, I gotta..." He gestured vaguely to the kitchen where his mother was doing the weekly crossword.

But he hadn't taken two steps before the phone rang again.

"Got it!" he called, swearing under his breath. Just five seconds to breathe, was that too much to ask...

He picked up the phone in the spare bedroom, out of earshot of the others.

"Lake residence, wassup?" he said flatly.

"Hey mate, it's Sniper."

"Sniper? Aw man, don't tell me something's gone wrong with you guys too?"

"Something's gone wrong back there?"

"Never mind. What'cha calling for?"

"Look, we got the accordion-"

"Alright, sweet!" Scout punctuated his words with a fist pump. It was high time for good news.

"-but we're going to be back later than we thought."

"What, why?" Scout could hear the sounds of fast moving cars in the background. "Where are you?"

"A gas station near Auburn."  
"Auburn?" Scout gaped. "What the hell are you doing there? That's halfway across the state!"  
"Part of the deal for the accordion. Look, I gotta go, just make sure your Ma doesn't think we were kidnapped on our walk or something."

"What am I s'posed to tell her then, huh? This wasn't part of the plan!"

"Neither was performing a concert, but plans change, don't they?"

"Sniper-"

Click.

Scout replaced the receiver with a small cry of frustration. Okay, they'd met some fans who... took them out for drinks. That'd do, wouldn't it? Whatever. He was getting very, very sick of this.

After relaying the message to his mother, who seemed to glow a little that her son's choir had groupies, as though _any_ choir had groupies, Scout rejoined his teammates in the sitting room.

"Right," he said. "Come up with anything? The answer'd better be yes." Scout was not in a mood to put up with anything.

"Well..." Engineer said reluctantly. "We got 'Shenandoah', 'cause your mama likes that one. And then we got, uh... 'Happy Birthday'. And 'John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt'?" He looked at Scout apologetically.

"Keep the first, scratch the other two," Scout said. "Come _on_, guys, there are, like... dozens of folk songs out there!"  
"Make your own list then!" Soldier said, pouting in a distinctly unmanly fashion.

"I'm trying to keep everything under control here, I ain't got time for this! Look, put down... I dunno, put down 'My Darling Clementine', that's one everyone oughta know. There, now you only need one more. I gotta go keep Ma company, 'cause we're being terrible guests, so just come up with one more friggin' folk song alright?" Scout snapped this last and huffed out of the room.

Engineer looked to Soldier uncomfortably. Soldier looked back.

"Is it just me," Engie said slowly, "or is Scout terrible at being in charge?"

"He didn't have to snap," Soldier sulked.

"_You_ snap," Engineer said, looking at him in confusion. "I'm pretty sure you're either snapping or yelling ninety-nine percent of the time."

"That's different," Soldier said, with more than a hint of whining. "I _am_ in charge."

"I never thought I'd say it," Engineer replied, shaking his head, "but you are definitely more pleasant in command than Scout."

Soldier paused. "Is that a compliment?"

Engineer looked at him blankly. "Sure."

Meanwhile, Scout was with his Ma in the kitchen, shakily sipping a mug of tea.

"You alright, sweetie pie?" Sophie asked, brow creased in motherly concern. "You seem tense."

"What, me?" Scout said, with unconvincing incredulity. "Nah, I'm... I'm fine." He waved a hand in a 'no-big-deal' gesture.

Ma's doubts were not assuaged. "You sure? You're not nervous about the competition, are ya?"

"A professional like me? Nah," he said breezily, though his heart had started fluttering at the reminder. But he quailed somewhat under Sophie's questioning gaze. "I mean, it's a _little_ stressful, just 'cause it's kinda last minute, ya know, but..."

"I'm sorry, sweetie, I didn't mean to pressure you into this, I just thought you might like to compete..." She looked crest-fallen, an emotion Scout could not handle from his mother. He rallied.

"What? No!" he said with a strained grin. "A big time choir like us? We live for this kinda thing! If that adrenaline isn't going we don't feel alive, you know?" Sophie's smile returned and Scout relaxed a little. It'd be alright, Ma would see them perform and it'd all be worth it.

They stayed up chatting a little longer, Scout telling her slightly modified versions of their after-battle adventures. This was nice; this was what he'd come back for. To spend time with the Ma he barely got to see anymore. Things were always so hectic, it was nice to just take a moment and-

Oh , who was he kidding? He was so highly strung and twitchy he could hardly focus. He was wound so tight and his nerves were so frayed that every casual-sounding sentence he could grind out was an effort of will. And the worst part? It was all his fault.

At long last, Scout announced that he was going to hit the sack.

"Alright, sweetie pie," Ma said kindly. "Good night, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite!" She planted a kiss on his cheek. Scout smiled weakly.

_Just like when I was little_, he thought. Some things never changed.

The uncharacteristically nostalgic Scout then ambled off to bed, collapsing onto the mattress face down.

Tomorrow would be another long day.

* * *

Author's note: I disappeared for a while. I'm back now. This chapter is nothing special, I know. It's simply the prelude to further chapters. Hopefully, there will not be such a long break before the next one!


	8. Chapter 8: Recapitulation

"Alright," said Scout. "Okay. Right."

There was silence as his assembled teammates stared at him.

"So," Scout clapped his hands together authoritatively, as though about to launch into a speech. But nothing followed.

From the team, silence again as Scout chewed his lip, drawing a total blank.

Soldier, leaning against the overcrowded sitting room couch, rolled his eyes impatiently. "Are you gonna talk, boy, or can I get back to my Sun Tzu?"

Engineer took a bit more pity on him. "You were going to tell us about the plan? For practice?" he prompted.

"Right!" Scout exclaimed. "Yes. Okay. Well, Engie and Soldier got the songs picked out. We got..." He squinted at a crumpled piece of scrap paper. "'Shenandoah', 'My Darling Clementine', and 'This Land Is Your Land'. Sound good?"

"Can we sing the dirty lyrics to that Clementine one?" asked Demo, clutching his final bottle of Scumpy like a lifeline.

"Course we can't, my Ma's gonna be there!" Scout huffed.

"_My_ Ma _taught_ me the dirty lyrics to that one," Demo grumbled.

Before Scout could reply, Soldier cut in. "Can we sing the peanut version, then?"

Scout stared at him uncomprehendingly. "The _what_ version?"

"The peanut version," Soldier repeated. "You know: found a peanut, found a peanut, found a peanut last night-"

"No, we're not gonna sing the peanut version, what is this, grade school?" Scout interrupted, wanting to hear as little of Soldier's so-called singing as possible. He'd been hearing plenty soon enough.

"Last month, you were showing off how you could belch not only the alphabet, but also a selection of rude limericks," Medic said, his arms crossed. "When did you become so concerned with model behaviour?"

"When I got back home where my Ma is," Scout said, exasperated. "Look, you guys don't know her like I do. When we were kids, if Ma got wind of us having bad manners, we knew we were in for it big time."

"And you're still worried about that now?" Spy said, raising an eyebrow sardonically. "Afraid you might get a timeout, _mon p'tit_?"

"Like any of you guys would wanna risk upsetting your Mas," Scout retorted. He knew it was true, and their expressions confirmed it: no matter how old you were, you never wanted to get an earful from your mother; some remnant of childhood forbade it. "And like I said, I don't want her to think I'm some kind of... of hooligan failure. The whole reason we're doing this choir thing is 'cause I don't wanna disappoint her."

"So she can be proud of someone you are not?" Spy sneered, words laced with venom. "Yes, I am sure that is what she would want."

Scout went still. Then he locked his gaze on Spy, eyes burning with fury. Surprised at his sudden seriousness, Spy dropped the sneer, but not his disdainful demeanour. Engineer, seeing that this could go nowhere good, stepped in once more.

"I think we've gotten off topic," he interjected hurriedly. "So those are the songs. Any objections?"

There were none. The whole team was shooting nervous glances at Scout. It wasn't like he was never angry; he was angry a lot. But there was something new about the... contempt in his eyes.

"Scout?" Engineer said carefully. "The rep's fine. What's next?"

Scout held Spy's gaze a moment longer before returning to the task at hand, with no small measure of reluctance. "Yeah. Well, if we're good with the songs... Uh, Sniper, you guys got the accordion?" Scout's voice was taut. He was clearly still bristling over Spy's words. Like the rest of the team, he usually brushed off Spy's snide remarks, but for whatever reason, it had really gotten under his skin this time. As for Spy, he was lounging nonchalantly, seeming indifferent to Scout's reaction. But anyone who knew him well would see that he too was puzzled.  
"You bet we have the accordion," Sniper said with enthusiasm, eager to defuse the situation and get the team back on track. He hefted the boxy instrument. "Got it from a busker downtown. Here ya go, Spy."

Spy took the accordion gingerly, handling it as though it were a dead rat, somehow infected by contact with a busker. Or perhaps by contact with Sniper, one could never be sure with Spy. He looked at the instrument in distaste, lip curling involuntarily. "It's... pink."

This was an undeniable fact. The accordion was _very _pink. Not sunrise pink, or roses pink, or even baby girl pink. But pink like bubblegum, like pink like stomach medicine, pink like a six-year-old's birthday. It was bright enough to signal airplanes with. A trained killer who spends his life in the shadows rapidly develops an aversion to neon, and no man in the 1960s wants anything to do with pink.

Sniper staunchly held his ground. "Yeah. And?" His expression dared Spy to argue that they should have found another readily available accordion for the sole reason of appealing to his preferred colour palette.

Spy knew the importance of choosing his battles. "And nothing. I was merely making an observation," he said with a shrug. He gave the instrument an experimental squeeze. It wheezed like an asthmatic goat.

There was a collective wince. Demo winced most of all. "The Scumpy's already wearing off," he moaned. "I need quiet."

"You'll live," Medic said, entirely unsympathetic to Demo's griping, having heard it the entire way back from Springfield the night before.

"Every bottle," Demo whispered balefully, his glower tinged with despair. "Why did it have to be _every_ bottle?"

Medic felt impelled to get the ball rolling again, since even what was sure to be an agonizing practice could not possibly be more excruciating than another second of hungover whining. "We have our instruments then," he said, gesturing to Spy's accordion, Engie's guitar, and the tambourine that Pyro had produced from who knows where. "Shall we rehearse?"

In this interlude, Scout had cooled down somewhat, his emotional barometer now registering as moody rather than borderline homicidal.

"Yeah," he said. "Um..." He cast back into the foggy depths of his memory, seeking to extract details from all those music lessons that his brain seemed to have merged into one generalized event. Mostly what he remembered was squinting at barely-decipherable blots of ink. But there were a few stray snippets of recollection that nagged for his attention.

"So, whenever you do music, you gotta warm up first," he said, more confidently than he felt.

"Like... stretches?" Heavy frowned.

"I guess. Yeah." That sounded right. "But _music_ stretches," he refined, attempting to validate his position as the presiding expert. "Like, Engie and Spy gotta stretch out their fingers and stuff, and we gotta stretch out our... vocal chords."

"And how exactly do we do that?" Medic asked, his tone heavy with the flatness of one resigned to his fate.

"Scales," Scout said promptly. He remembered those. Marching his fingers up down the keys or strings, over and over, like soldiers doing drill. He seemed to recall they were a vocal thing too. "Engie, could ya gimme a C?" Scout was warming to his new role as choirmaster. The music lessons were coming back now, bit by bit; he could recall that C had been an important note.

"Son, I play by ear," Engineer said patiently. "I can't read a lick of sheet music, and I wouldn't know a C if it bit me in the ass."

"Kay, then just give me any note, doesn't matter," Scout said with a casual wave of the hand. Engineer shrugged and plucked a string. "Alright, we start there and then go up and then back down."

Looking at each other uncertainly, the team members assigned to vocal duty attempted the scale, with varying degrees of success. Scout and Medic hit all the pitches not beautifully but more or less accurately, Heavy and Soldier managed the general shape of the exercise, Sniper maintained a single slightly wandering note the entire time, and Demo buried his head in his hands and groaned.

They did this a few more times until Scout arbitrarily declared them warmed up.

Demo looked up from the coffee he'd obtained during this process. "We're done?"

Scout ignored him. "So. Now we just gotta... practice."

They sang through the songs, with the foreign team members learning some of the tunes along the way, and everyone trying to assemble the lyrics from their fragmented knowledge of the pieces, gleaned mainly from long ago campfire sing-alongs they would hardly admit to ever being at. Everyone agreed that three verses of anything was more than enough, saying that it was because they didn't want to go on for too long, while silently acknowledging that it was because they couldn't scrape together any more words. Holes in their knowledge were patched with invented lyrics, but as Engineer reminded them, that was part of the great tradition of folk singing, wasn't it, things changing as the songs got passed from group to group?

So the repertoire gradually took shape. A sort of distorted, Frankenstein-esque shape, but a shape nonetheless.

It was the effort to make it tolerable to the ears that began to strain the team dynamics.

It started when Scout tried to get them to sing in some kind of harmony, but was utterly unable to articulate what that would actually sound like, much less what the specific notes would be, although their degree of accuracy made the latter a moot point. It worsened when Engineer began constantly pointing out that they were no longer in the same key as the guitar and, in Soldier's profanity-filled opinion at least, was unreasonably refusing to change the key he was playing in despite being the only one still in it. Things really began to fall apart when Medic accused Sniper of making his ears bleed with his hoarse, tuneless singing. From there, it was mostly just yelling. All of this was underscored by the pitiful gasps of the accordion as Spy fumbled with the unfamiliar instrument, and the persistent jangling of Pyro's shockingly annoying tambourine. The rehearsal descended into total anarchy, with Scout, the erstwhile choirmaster, futilely attempting to keep it on track as a threnody of chaos played out before him.

"I am playing the note you need to sing!"

"I am singing the note you're playing!"

"Are you deaf!? _Listen_ to the pitch. No, higher. _Higher. _Damn it Sniper, _all you need to do is sing the same note!_"

"Spy, will you try using that thing as an instrument instead of a torture device?"

"I am sorry, I could not hear my own sound over your _caterwauling!_"

"At least the dirty lyrics would make this funny!"

"Guys, this is going nowhere," Scout said, frowning in serious cogitation. All his words managed to do was set off another shouting match.

"Hey, I don't think I'm doing that badly-"

"You can't expect me to make music under these conditions, with these imbeciles-"

"Who drank the rest of the coffee, I _need _it-"

"I'M YELLING TOO!"

When he finally got them to quiet down enough to hear him, he went on. "Look, we could sit here for hours and beat these notes to death and still not sound any better than we do now."

"So what do you want us to do?" Medic said peevishly. "This whole choir thing was your stupid idea."

Scout ignored that last comment. "What I'm saying is..." He paused dramatically. "We need to call in the big guns."

* * *

The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.

Scout was about to give up. It had taken guts to call, and now with the anticipation, he was losing his nerve. He had almost decided to put the phone down and forget the whole thing when someone answered.

"Hello?"

That voice. It sounded exactly the same. It instantly brought back memories of the days of do re mi and clapping. He imagined he could even smell that weird lavender perfume she always wore. Suddenly he was three feet tall again, sitting mutely on a piano stool while that warbly voice reminded him that "the half note gets _two_ counts." It had been years, but you never forgot what that felt like, those embryonic days of musical study.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

Scout realized with a jolt that he had yet to answer her. In the face of an abrupt return to childhood, he managed to find his voice.

"Sister Charity?"

Sister Charity LeBrun of Little Songbirds Music Nursery. Sister Charity, who used lighthearted rhymes and encouraging stickers to teach the basics of music to the children she took under her wing. Sister Charity, the embodiment of grandmotherliness, loved by parents and students alike.

Sister Charity, the gentle soul who could nonetheless produce a glare so powerful that it struck fear into the heart of every tiny musician who had dared to incur her wrath. No one ever, _ever_ made her truly angry. As far as the kids were aware, she had never _actually_ punished anyone, never even made threats... But children instinctively _know _which adults they would regret messing with. Part of Sister Charity's power over her charges came from their eagerness not to disappoint this kind, sweet old woman. The other part came from their dark fear of the unknown punishments she would surely visit upon them if they dared cross the line. In Sister Charity's lessons, you _behaved_.

So if Scout's voice came out an octave or two higher than usual when he answered her, he could be excused. Sister Charity was well-loved for her maternal ways, and deeply feared for the same.

"Yes, this is Sister Charity. Who's this?"

"It's Scout," he replied automatically. But that nickname hadn't come along until much, much later.

"Scout?"

"Sorry, I mean..." He hesitated. The team was right there. He had hoped to keep this a secret. But there was no turning back now. "It's Cornelius. Cornelius Lake."

He closed his eyes as an intense silence came into being around the team, the silence of people who were unable to believe what they were hearing, but were utterly delighted by it.

"Why, Cornelius, it's been so long! How are you, dearie?"

"Uh, good. Yeah, I'm... great. Um... how are you doing?"

"Oh, as well as can be expected at my age."

Scout was secretly surprised that at her age, she was still alive. Sister Charity had not been a young woman during Scout's time under her tutelage. But she was one of those people who seemed to have stopped getting older at the age of "ancient" and was frozen there in time.

"Why, it's been years since I've heard from you! How old are you now?"

"Just turned twenty last month."

"My, my! It seems like only yesterday you were graduating from Little Songbirds. Are you still making music?"

"Yeah. Actually, that's kinda what I wanted to talk to you about..."

* * *

Author's Note: I guess these are going to become a regular feature. I just wanted to thank everyone again for the kind reviews and the support I've received. You flatter me! :) This update is sooner to make up for my delay last time. Fair warning: I have no idea when the next chapter will be out. But bear with me, it'll show up before too long.


	9. Chapter 9: Transition

With Sister Charity slated to arrive at the Lake residence at nine the next morning, the team settled in for the afternoon, gladly accepting that more practice would be of no use at this point.

Instead, they were able to focus on one of their favourite sports: ragging Scout. The revelation of his first name had given them fresh ammo, and they were more than happy to use it.

"Cornelius?"

"Yeah."

"That's pretty awful."

"Yeah."

"Betcha your brothers had a good time with that one."

"Yeah."

"Did you have a nickname?"

"No."

"It was Corny, wasn't it?"

"...Yeah."

As late afternoon rolled around, Ma called. She was a hospital receptionist, and Sundays off were a foreign concept in her world, but one of the girls (as she called them) had a child sick at home, and regretfully, she'd have to work late. Left to fend for themselves in the wilderness of the kitchen, the mercenaries managed to scrape together a basic meal of odds and ends from the fridge. They talked about their vacation, about what to expect upon their return to work, about whether a seal could kill a bear if given a jetpack. After a while, though, the conversation returned to the issue at hand.

"I gotta ask, Scout," Engineer said. "Why a folk choir?"

"I told ya, I didn't want to let Ma down," Scout said, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, but you could have just told her you were working some office job or something," Sniper said. "You must have had a reason for making it so complicated."

Scout sighed sharply in irritation, abruptly upset. "Look, I just..." He was clearly agitated. "Ma's had a rough life, okay, and I just wanted things to turn out just like she wanted, just once, alright?" He sat back heavily, refusing to make eye contact.

"Calm down, Scout," Medic said, taken aback. "We were only wondering."

"Well, that's why," Scout said flatly. "So cool it, Fritz."

"Come on now, lad," Demo said, trying to placate him.

"Forget it," Scout muttered.

There was an awkward silence as Scout seethed. Then he seemed to deflate a little.

"Everybody needs a team," he mumbled dejectedly, fiddling with his dog tags absentmindedly. "We all got each other. When I was growing up, me and my brothers all had each other. Ma and Pa had each other. But then there was Korea," His fist tightened around the dog tags "and I was only little and... Ma didn't have anybody. Everybody needs somebody."

They waited silently.

"Me playing music made her happy," he went on eventually, his voice distant. "And that was the only way I could have her back, you know, trying to make her happy. And I wanted her to be proud of me... _I_ was happy when she was proud of me...

"We all love our Mas. I mean, you _gotta_ love your Ma. And I knew that I was going to be nothing but a disappointment to her if she ever knew the truth... So I told her the best lie I could think of... The one that'd would make her the happiest and the proudest and..."

Then icy self-consciousness crept up his spine. The team was listening solemnly to his words, and he bristled at the idea of them knowing any of this. "Look, forget it, alright?" he said, his tone angry and rejecting of any sympathy. "We'll just... We'll sing on Tuesday and you'll never have to worry about it again. It'll just be my problem after that." He gave the clock a cursory glance, not really looking at the numbers. "It's late. I'm going to bed."

Lying stiffly on his back in his room, Scout was struck by the sameness of everything. The baseball posters, the elementary school track ribbons, the box filled with toys untouched for years, stratified by the age at which he outgrew them. Time had passed this place by, leaving it untouched to be the tomb of his childhood, where all the detritus of the years had accumulated and been tenderly left as though for preservation. There was a hollowness to it, and Scout, a person so full of life, felt out of place here in this tiny corner of paling memories. He thought of his brothers' rooms, each left like his, each one faded without the little boy who would never return. He ran a finger along the bedside table. No dust. He gave a mirthless breath of laughter. His mother, the meticulous caretaker of the forlorn museum their house had become.

It didn't seem right.

A thought rustled for attention in his despondent contemplation. He opened the closet and saw the object lying right where he'd left it all those years ago. He'd knew it would be there, but he had to check.

His violin.

It was old, and it was battered. It had been left to Little Songbirds in the will of someone long forgotten and had been passed on to Scout, who would never have been able to afford even one of the pawnshop instruments.

It looked almost shrivelled after years in the quiet dark. An instrument wasn't alive of course, not really. But it had life of some kind. And left for so long without music, it was... dead.

He picked it up gingerly, as though fearful it would turn to dust at his touch. It seemed smaller than it had back then. Of course, _he_ had been smaller back then. He nestled the instrument underneath his chin, his hand automatically positioning itself around the neck. It was all so familiar, and yet... it still felt off. He picked up the bow, tightened it, and placed it gently onto the strings. He tensed his hand to play.

Then he put the bow down.

Scout looked at the violin guiltily. After so many years of allowing it to wither, after lying to his mother about his dedication to the craft, playing it now would seem somehow... profane. He wanted the music to breathe life back into its shell, to breath life into something in this mausoleum of a room, but he couldn't bring himself to play a note. A small, curdling pit of shame and regret formed deep in his chest and he placed the instrument gently back on the low shelf.

He had neglected too much. His mother, his music... He'd grown up, and what did he have to show for it? What did he have now?

His mother was happy and proud of him.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in his mirror.

Well.

At least somebody was.

* * *

Scout's tongue prodded the swollen spot on his lip. It hurt, but he couldn't seem to keep from messing with it.

"Stupid meanies," he whispered furiously to himself, twisting up a fistful of blanket.

It had been a trio of third graders, two years older than him, and a lot bigger. His brothers had told him over and over again, never get into a fight outnumbered. But they were saying things about his Ma. He didn't understand a lot of it, not exactly. But he understood that it was mean, and nobody, _nobody_ said anything mean about his Ma. As the only Lake kid around at the time, he knew it was his job to stand up for her.

Predictably, the outcome wasn't even close. They had him running in less than a minute. If his big brothers had been there... But of course they weren't there. The older boys had made sure. They wouldn't have come after him otherwise. The Lake boys had a reputation well known among the children of South Boston.

Scout's brain was feverishly running through a series violent revenge fantasies, mostly involving robots. But his powerless rage was interrupted when he heard a quiet snuffling sound. Intrigued, he slipped out of bed, snuck past his sleeping brother in the bed adjacent, and tiptoed down the hall.

Peering silently into the sitting room, he was distressed to see his mother softly sobbing, curled in the cozy armchair they used for story time, clutching that old picture of Pa in his uniform. Scout felt a pang of worried compassion, laced with guilt. In the way of children, he was certain her tears had something to do with him. He pulled back around the corner, wondering anxiously about what he should do. Obviously, he had to cheer her up. But how? What made her happy?

He had the answer almost immediately. He scampered back to his room and dragged his violin from the closet, where it had been resting on a box of baseball cards. He returned to the entrance of the sitting room, standing silently until his mother sensed someone was there and turned.

"Sweetie pie, what are you doing up?" she said, abandoning the photograph, dashing away tears quickly, and coming over to kneel in front of him. "Did you have a bad dream?"

"I learned a new song today," he said, holding out his violin matter-of-factly.

"Well, maybe we can hear it tomorrow, okay honey?" she smiled and patted his head.

"But... I can't sleep until I play it," he said. It was true; if he thought Ma was out here crying, he wouldn't be able to sleep at all.

She appraised his determined expression. Scout had always been stubborn. "Okay, sweetie. You can play me your song. Quiet though, don't wake your brothers." She settled into the armchair once more, awaiting his performance. Scout awkwardly lifted the violin into position, took a preparatory breath, furrowed his brow in concentration, and began to play, dragging the bow across the strings with the utmost care.

The notes were not pretty to hear; they were scratchy and out of tune. But Scout's careful hands drew them out painstakingly, one by one, and each sound was a labour of love.

_You are my sunshine,_

_My only sunshine,_

_You make me happy,_

_When skies are grey..._

Ma joined in softly, singing:

_You'll never know, dear,_

_How much I love you,_

_Please don't take_

_My sunshine away._

Scout lowered the instrument and smiled hopefully. Ma smiled back, and he felt a glow. His mission was a success.

"That was very nice, sweetie," she said, walking over and giving him a kiss on the top of his head. "Thank you. And now it's bedtime."

Scout didn't protest as she scooped him into her arms and carried him back to his room. Nor did he say a word as she tucked him into bed.

"Night night, sweetie," she said warmly, giving him a squeeze.

"Night night, Ma," Scout returned with a yawn. He was asleep before she'd even left the room.

* * *

Author's Note: A bit of a change in tone, I know, but hopefully enjoyable nonetheless! I want to let you know that there is a chance of me taking a short break from this writing until other more serious and pressing projects have been dealt with. But stick with me, I promise that this story will get finished! The next installment may just be a bit of a wait is all. Thanks once again for all the wonderful support!


	10. We'll Be Right Back After These Messages

Author's Note (Part 1): Before you begin, no, this is not actually a part of the story. But I felt that I owed it to all of you kind individuals to try and post something!

* * *

*tap tap tap*

"Hey Engie, c'mere!"

"What's the matter, Scout?"

"The hell is this?"

"The hell is what?"

"This!" *tap tap tap*

"Oh, that! That, son, is the fourth wall."

"Oh, you mean the literary construct that separates the fictional world of the characters from the real world of the readers, permitting temporary suspension of disbelief?"

"You bet your britches!"

"Huh. Always thought that was just a metaphor."

*crunch*

"Now look what you've gone and done!"

"What? What did I do?!"

"You've gone and broken it!"

"But I wasn't even touching it!"

"You acknowledged your own fictional nature! That breaks it every time! And your out-of-character vocabulary seven lines back didn't do it any favours either!"

"Sorry, but I'm bored! Feels like we haven't done anything in forever! I've been waiting around in an emotional flashback ever since the last chapter came out."

"I know, Scout. But sometimes things happen and we gotta be patient."

"Have you met me? 'Patience' ain't exactly my middle name."

"What are you two doing?"

"Hey, Doc. We're just providing some light entertainment for viewers as a way to bridge the gap between chapters until the author has time to write."

"Don't talk like that! You'll break the... you-know-what!"

"Too late. He's already gone and shattered the thing."

"Gah! How long will it take to fix?"

"Hard to say. But there sure can't be an update until I've restored the division between the audience and the characters."

"Could we use the time to get some more choir practice in?"

"Not a chance. The narrative's been suspended while further chapters are pending. Our hands are tied."

"Hey, if the fourth wall's broken, can they hear us out there?"

"Sure can, Scout."

"And we've been talking like they ain't even here! Geez, if my Ma knew 'bout this, I'd be getting an earful for my bad manners."

"I think we already went over that bit of characterization."

"Come on, Doc! Repetition is a classic narrative device that reinforces important points so that the audience can remember them should they become essential to the plot!"

"And will that be essential to the plot?"

"How should I know? It ain't even written yet! But we're being rude to the folks on the other side of the wall."

"Come on, Scout..."

"Quiet, I'm talking here! Hello out there? I just wanted to let ya know that you guys have been making telling this story lots of fun for us, even if the author's been sending us through the wringer. We're going to keep pestering BlizzardWatch to get writing, but there's a lot of stuff going on, so I dunno when we'll be getting any attention. But we'd hate to disappoint you guys, so there will be more as soon as possible."

"Since when are you polite and reasonable?"

"Since the fourth wall broke and I get to act out of character. Look, thanks a bunch for all the awesome feedback! You guys rock! If ya ever need a favour, just give the Lake house a call and ask for Cornelius, 'cause I owe ya one!"

"Scout, this ridiculous filler has been going on way too long."

"I was just trying to be courteous!"

"Well, you can cut it out. Anyway, Heavy's got the 'Meet the Team' videos cued up, so we'd better go before he gets impatient."

"Do we gotta watch those again?"

"Not much else to do."

"I wanted to watch Say Yes to the Dress."

"Say Yes to the Dress?"

"Sure. This is non-canon filler. I can say whatever I like and the slate's clean when the story starts up again."

"Son, you are unbelievable."

* * *

Author's Note (Part 2): So until Engie can get the fourth wall back up, I won't be posting. It will most likely be early May before the next chapter comes along, for which I apologize. But if you would be so kind as to bear with me, I promise you several more installments and a lively finale! Who knows, maybe if anyone is interested, I'll put together a (non-music themed) sequel when I've got the time. But until then, there are plenty of other delightful TF2 stories out there, which I encourage you to read! Just don't forget about me, I'll be back! :)


End file.
